


Last Hunt

by mistalagan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistalagan/pseuds/mistalagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Last hunt," Dean says of this one, but he says that every time.</p>
<p>(AU, as it was written before 7x17; post-series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Hunt

"Last hunt," Dean says of this one, but he says that every time. There's three missing eight-year-old girls in a little town in Massachusetts, and Sam thinks it might not be supernatural—but he says that every time, too, and without fail they climb into the Impala. She's better, younger looking than either of them at this point. Seven states, seventeen hundred miles; Dean's back is killing him by the time they pull up to the motel where normal people rent by the month. Sciatica, he remembers, and tries not to think about herniated discs or tumors or losing the ability to run.

Sam sets the bags down and kicks Dean out, sitting on an off-white towel on the filthy floor with his lopsided candle. He'll meditate for hours, probably—something set him off back in Ohio and he's been twitchy since. Dean's used to it.

He heads to the library, because there was allegedly a string of disappearances back in 1793 and the town's historical society's based there. It's a nice library. Kids are just getting out of school, and apparently some of them these days still read because they're swarming all over the place. The librarian gives him a strained smile, a help him in a minute once she's gotten them under control smile. He turns and catches a glimpse of the children's section, kindergartners sitting in half circles around the man in the old wooden chair.

And God, he can't help the little "Cas?" that escapes his throat, before he thinks it could be Jimmy, no, a lookalike, because the man there is so young, like it's still 2012 and there's still a chance Cas might be out there, alive.

The voice, though, the voice, low and rasping as if he has to work to remember how to talk, and something draws up and sticks in Dean's throat so that he startles and jerks when the librarian comes up behind him. She laughs. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she says. "Here for story time?"

"Uh," Dean says, "nah, just, uh. He looks like someone I knew, once."

She raises her eyebrows and nods. "Really? Because he's something of a mystery around here. Drifted into town one day, hung around for a while here until we went and offered him a job. Looked like he needed it, and he's clean and quiet and good with the kids. Bit simple. But good hearted." She smiles briefly. "I was just a few years out of college, then. Never thought I'd stay here this long. But it's a good town. Now Dean, he doesn't look like he's aged a day."

Dean blinks, because he doesn't think he'd ever given her his name. Odd.

Cas—no, the man who looks like Cas did—finishes the story, half-closes the book before the kids start clamoring for more. Dean catches a glimpse of a not-quite smile as he opens it again, finds a new page, and starts rumbling on. "There was once upon a time a girl who was young and beautiful, but she had lost her mother when she was very young…"

"He likes the classics," she says, "though sometimes we have to stop him from telling the less appropriate ones." She regards Dean. "So, was there something you needed?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. Um, can you direct me to the historical society's archives?"

"Of course. May I ask why…?"

*

He can't concentrate, though, and anyway it looks like the story was a dud—a few deaths in that year, yes, but unrelated. No other killing sprees, either. The town was like a poster child for wholesome New England-ness.

When he leaves the room, Cas—not-Cas—is standing there waiting for him with keys in hand. The door has to be locked behind him, she'd said, but he hadn't expected not-Cas to have nothing better to do than wait. He says as much.

The man shrugs. "You are one of the last ones in the library," he says, and shit, he's right, Dean's spent a lot longer in there than he'd thought.

"Sorry," he says.

"Dean!" shouts the librarian, and they both turn. "Can you finish shelving that last cart when you're done there?"

"Uh," Dean starts to say, but not-Cas beats him to it. "Of course."

"I see you two've met," she says, "this is Dean, and I don't think I caught your name, Mr. …?"

"I'm Dean," he blurts out, "I'm Dean."

"Oh! Oh, well, then, it must have been awfully confusing for you just now. Dean, meet Dean, I suppose." She smiles politely. "We're closing, so unless you'd like to help shelve I have to ask you to go."

He twitches, turns to—turns to Dean, swallows and smiles and leaves.

*

"I'm staying here," he tells Sam, who looks at him and nods. 

"Yeah, Dean, we've got the room for a couple nights—"

"No. I'm staying here," and Sam shuts up and squints. "I like it. Nice weather. Should be able to find a place to rent, right?"

"It's been raining since we got here. What the hell?"

He can't explain, so he takes Sam to the library the next day and watches the other Dean shelve books for two hours.

"It's not healthy," Sam says.

"Since when have our lives ever been healthy? I'm staying." Dean's back twinges, and he sits. "…I have to know."


End file.
